Questions, Quandaries and Quarry
by Kasan Soulblade
Summary: They were plauged by this triad. Saddled with an impossible, improbable quest. Little wonder there was rebellion, discontent, defection. Being as they were, these broken things called non-existance personified by the unlearned. Didn't they see the contradiction. One did, and for seeing he disbelieved.
1. Report: 01: Irrelevence

Questions, Quandaries and Quarry.

_Another side; personal perspective and other delusions:_

_The Report: 01_

_Irrelevance of relevant_

Despite what others might think, even Nobodies have childhoods. For the non-sentient it's an easy matter, an easy to pin point moment upon our existence that _does_ exist. All claims to the contrary by ever Somebody ever born is simply a matter of prejudice.

Like our predecessor, there is birth. Devoid of blood and all of Birth's biological niceties, but it's there. That one flicker between existence and not, like a cheap magicians trick, _here is, there it goes_, save reversed. Then that immutable moment springs upon the newly made, that opening of eyes, wide and wild we gaze upon the unspeakable. Overwhelmed by the vibrancy of an unknown universe, a universe a thousand times more complicated than any Somebody can ever conceive, _it_ is spread before us.

Than denied, promptly, forbidding hope.

Light, light, glorious illumination, intercedes. It gouges at sensitivity with impunity, never mind its supposed mercy…

Then, merciful cruelty, comes the Pall. That grey tinge which encroaches on the bite of illumination, steeling fangs and numbing sensitivity before a cry can be rendered. Grey steals the edges, muffles the light's blade.

Thus is birth, this is childhood's end, for those without minds. Minds are placed within the Hollowed Ones. Instinct: who to follow, how to follow, frame and form. All are instant, one inflicted, and by the writhing of quicksilver I've seen a thousand times before it's not a pleasant span, the last.

But, before _that_ Moment and the monotony of After there is something.. intangible… to the experiences. Any with wit, excluding all Somebodys as they are all without, would understand that these moments encapsulate the whole of infanthood to adolescence –perhaps adulthood, that I'm unsure, as those without words, with planted minds can change anew, with influence.. it's something to speculate upon at a later date-. Asides aside… the cycle of maturity goes through stages. Growth, structural, mental are the forms of growth acknowledged by the Hearted masses to have worth. Those _are_ experienced by a Nobody. While accelerated _time is an irrelevant denominator_ _in this equation_, and thus a Nobodys development is equitable to the actual growth cycles of their predecessor Somebody.

Yet further proof that those Hearted and Those Without are perhaps closer to comparison than the Somebodies would like to concede.

_a/n: I found this a few days ago, bits and pieces of a KH fanfic unrelated to my older piece and I thought I'd ost it before the notebook gets lost in the crush known as "trying to reorganize" Anyway , this piece is dates, like pre-KH2 being completion and is going to disregard some pieces of canon, tweek others, and just try to stand on its own within the setting. Enjoy._


	2. Here and now: Justice's Hue

Questions, Quandaries, and Quarry

Chapter 1

Here and now: Justice's Hue

He recalls bits and pieces, fragmentations of a while. And like any intellectual, missing half the pieces of the problem is enough to rile his temper.

The fact that some niggling bit of truth insists that this lapse is his own fault stirs the rarely risen to vicious forum.

Slamming the door as he went, he stormed out. Quitting vocation and sense for awhile. Fisted hands were shoved into black jean pockets, he looses one fist to zip his hoodie tight never mind there was no chill. Errand done it clenches, and to better hide this he shoves it back into a pocket with its kin.

He's never cold, ever. The motion's a habit. Why, the why behind it is mad, barking, still if pressed he'll admit through grit teeth the following.

_To ward their eyes_…

Whose eyes, he never knew. The truth was likely a dated one. Considering the oddity of his apparel and carriage of the moment, it was more than likely he would draw any and all eyes to him. Actually the guarded glance of some woman across the street assures that he's right.

Like always.

Still, addressing the logic of the here and now vs the logic of the then and there… It's insane, he'd be first to admit it, inane even, but it's still there. An insurmountable impulse. And no matter how much he _knows_ it's wrong, that it doesn't fit, all is eclipsed by the insidious hiss of the Before.

So he endures the odd look from the passerby across the street as he rips his hood over his face. His frame is quaking with near homicidal fury –the only thing that makes it _near_ is the fact that there is now no one about to serve as a body- he tackles paved streets with stomping feet and trods into the night.

It is dark, night, the eternal moment that no one but him remembers has long passed. For this world (there are others, don't ask how, or even why he knows, he just does) while striking and beautiful in sunset and its attendant twilight are no longer eternal. While _that_ monotony is broken the blockish, ho-hum, saneness of the buildings about him, nothing could save those. Save razing.

But he wasn't the one for arson, they had… someone… for that. Roman numerals flicker through his mind like the last edges of a fire he wishes he could use. Words akin to a child's rhymn, all disjointed nad nonsense, save someones' striped the words of childishness, twiddle through his brain. Fire for nine, One superior…

One should have been mine. Was meant to be…

There and gone. Incensed now, he wishes for a do to kick, not finding any he settles for a sizable chunk of pavement. The cements broken here. Fancy and a small crater with spider webbed jags indicate some mammoth's fist has done the damage. Gossip indicates the tenant above the shop –Frivolities Incorporated, his name, not the one that adorns the sign. Their specialty is shoes and accessories and how it all comes together to fill a shop no matter how small is a wonder of wonders- threw something heavy and dear to her husband out the window and let gravity work its wonders.

Good for her, so murmur the righteous busybodies.

Better for him, he doesn't have to deface someone's property to get a rock to kick. Vengeance done (spite indulged) foot hurting (expected) he crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at nothing at all.

And he hates getting his hands dirty, his hurting foot tells why without words.

And that, the last, is a wonder and mercy and worry all in one.

He's never without words, either his or other's to peruse. He's never without a book in hand. Legally obtained or not he has to have a book, and now that his rage had dulled to a more sane level –the red's receded- that lack is coming back.

Clamoring silently, his brain is informing him that right now, this ever moment, he is without book. Redundant beyond redundant, it chatters that he's never ever without, and that span of Before murmurs in his ear with grating urgency that he's unarmed.

No not that.

Whispers are too tame, orders too concise. It _drives_ him to correct his flaw via punishment. Setting an itchy emptiness over his hands that though fisted and pocketed and is insistent enough to encourage rubbing. Tracing seam, least his thumb feel left out, his other digits begin to twitch. Desperate to sooth a sensation that's, as his Shrink calls it, "all in his head".

As itch swells to an ache -to be open, to hold the edges, the comforting weight, save none of them are right, _none of them at all_- the sensations hijack his mind. With obsession's sincerity it avows that he doesn't have to resolve his dilemma now, just soon.

Preferably immediately.

Then the sadistic thing, the thing of Before ups ache to eye watering agony. Gnashing his teeth, least he scream, he closes his eyes, tries to push the need back.

And when he opens his eyes, finds that he's pushed everything else back. Confused by the unfamiliar open air, open sky, little facts flick into being. No roof, no walls, mean _outside_. Smooth grey stone, poured stone, cement! Beside a bit behind, broken, crater, jag… Numbers flash into his mind, then his aching foot somehow gives enough stimuli to shove the numbers and their elusive errant conclusion back. Broken, fragments, his, more than. He shifts on his aching foot, affirming that they are his, his to get back at. Lukewarm spite pushed back the chill running up his spine, so it's with clear, befuddled blue eyes he looks both about and inward. Sign, text, his lips curl as he reads its inanity. The whole is blockish, underscored with shoelaces, pink shoelaces… Irritating, the contents within are more so than the text, that fact bubbles to the front of his mind without much of a battle.

Behind, unseen but known, (reaching, he's reaching, good, a good thing, stretching the world past it's square and up) back, black, rough where the other is smoothed, white stripes, all straight, all chasing each other –save when it curves, but only at intersections- tidbits rustle about. Mind the red, save when it's green, words congeal into dialogue.

From Before, last week, never, who knew?

"_When the little person is in the box abutting the pole with the three lights on it, it means to __**not**__ turn! __**Not turn**__. As in, __**do not hit the accelerator and run the pedestrians over**__!"_

_Brutishly unrepentant, the other, as always, rumbled a surly "Next time, you drive then!"_

Footsteps, not behind but beyond his range of vision.

He'd heard those before. Swagger to the step, his heart raced and he whirled about, eyes wide, haunted by things that shouldn't be

Couldn't be.

"_Don't you… want to be real…"_

"_What are you telling him!"_

"_You know… too much… Sorry Z-"_

_Pain, heart he didn't have wasn't beating, not anymore…_

"Ienzo?"

Concern. One difference. Brown striped with silver flat, not red hair spikes. He grips each difference, an the madness in his gaze eases back bit by bit. Brown, apron, pants, white shirt, a hand warm (not scalding) reach for him. Reaching done, the one claps his shoulder. No black robes, on either of them. Truth pushed through Before and remembrance and fragments. Holy help him if it hadn't, help them both.

He snatches up the significant truth then, the closest one to the left and holds it tight.

_This wasn't then_.

**One breath**.

His minds a puzzle see, save someone's swiped all the pieces and jumbled three sets into the same box and said here, live with this. And

**Another breath**.

His knees are knocking, bad, fear of things that had came and were nightmarish to boot. The whole tasted rancid and dark. He snorted, trying to dislodge the scent and failed. Failing, he fell, supported by…

**Once more**

Nothing at all. Else it wouldn't be a fall.

Back clacking against a white pole with enough force to cause the faulty light atop to flicker. While logic was his specialty, wiring was not, nor the logistics attached. He nearly sobbed, checking back the weakness, ever aware of eyes (no matter how kindly they were eyes, on him, and he must act accordingly) he slid down the pole.

Shivering, eyes scrunched, least he start crying, he wrapped arms around his chest. Now cold, more than.

"Bad one?" the hand retracted. Fabric on air, the subtle sounds of both interacting alluded to that.

He daren't open his eyes to check, the pieces were tumbling, eyes wide, he might see something. Something that alluded to illusions.

That'd destroyed him,

One handed, his Master, employer, both. Both were inflicted by mercy, had that bright blade put to their throats. Or in the older man's case, his hand. Put and pressed, and the pressure of a blade was quite cutting indeed.

It had been a petty thing. Whenever the older man had drunk he became violent, he hadn't stopped drinking, and thus had inflicted an act of violence upon some somebody of no importance. Permanent violence, permanent harm, a numbing really.

Not all that bad, at least the first victim's arm was still attached and stuffily mobile.

As for the second victim, the perpetrator of the wrong he was, but he was made a victim by the events thereafter… Well the evidence of what had happened was obvious to any with eyes, the ability to count and a passing knowledge of the human body.

Seeing the stare, ascribing the aqua hued glower to more of the usual, confusion and the like, the brunette and his incriminating grey set one arm to rub his stump.

Rumor had it the detached could be visited in a museum of judicial curiosities nowadays.

Lips quirking at the _faux pas_ that teased his tongue the fallen uncrossed his arms and let a glimmer of humor light his eyes.

"How long was I out?'

While not "out" exactly it was the word they'd decided upon.

"Not long Ienzo."

Blankly the young man stared up; not recognizing what was inherently his. He'd never react to it, after all his name was part of what had been stolen from him in good driven retribution. The last gift from a mother and father he didn't know, never met, was no longer his.

Language had been twisted in his head, a wonder more wasn't, littler wonder that he had mood swings and was edgy ever after.

"Ready?" Arm offered, muscular but not as much as perhaps another he'd known, was offered.

"Client…." Before his temper… there'd been someone, pink haired, frizzled yet feminine despite being a male. Perfume and lip gloss were the two tells to that last judgment. "Did he…"

"Your exact words,-" finger interlaced he was pulled up; younger unsteadily toddled until balance was found. Once equilibrium was assured, the older carried on. "-were, "Traitor or not at least I _think_ you pompous ignoramus!", when the pretty boy went to me and spotted my arm he up and vamoosed. Squeamish little thing he was. Gardeners always are."

"_Tall_ little thing, he was." The Traitor drawled. "He topped you by half a foot."

And the speaker in question was topped by his retriever by almost a foot atop that. Growth genes, hormones, and the like, were devilishly selective. Much like intelligence.

"And what's got you grinning?"

"Something both impolitic and sadistic, you know, the usual."

"Don't I.?" Thick older man's brows puckering in thought, perhaps thinking of a few uncensored 'comments' he'd had inflicted upon himself for asking the redundant "what". Taking the course of wisdom, thus living up to cliché around the edges, he said instead of the expected. "Well… Traitor, better now?"

A snort and a wry "Never," was both truth and answer for the two of them.

But this was the shade of justice in the land of Light. Be good, adhere, question not, and be but another rose upon back of Radiant Garden. Question, cause discontent, _be_ discontent, and to the Twilight you were banished. Evermore, redemption was a fantasy never fulfilled, always offered, but never met.

"So, head back on?"

"As much as it ever is." Long hands smoothed over hoodie front, the silver zipper twinkled as it swayed.

"To work then!" Arm swatted the younger's back, causing him to stagger and dislodging a few long silver tinged blue locks to stab at one eye. Closing the assaulted, he slipped out of the over familiar embrace and shoveled the locks under his hood with one twitchy hand.

When his eyes were clear and his face hard –the scowl he was shooting was a rough thing, making the muscles that held it up to ache- he was set upon by.. by Ronald Ospray's sheepish expression.

Fact recalled, last fact he was missing in this moment, the younger sighed. Relaxed. Thick as ever Ronald saw it and thought he'd caused pain.

"Sorry kiddo."

"Don't "_kiddo_" me." The Traitor hissed.

"Well I can't bleeding call you "Traitor" can I? Not for something no one, not even you, knows what you did. And you don't know your real name, so what's left?"

To that more than reasonable rebuttal the Traitor opened his mouth, closed it, then all accidental twitched his fingers. The burning had abated, but was coming back. For that to stop, more than anything else, he nodded and after a quick look at the nearest sign –Pandora Ave intersected Finite street- was more than ready to pick his way back.

Past jags, and flaws, lines and monotony you see there was an office. An boxish span where he worked, surrounded by grey green bookshelves and gloom in equal measure. Before that little fiasco during his break with boys to be pretty to be sane or straight, he'd been working that was, well breaking for a bite, but still…. Work was where he belonged. Surrounded by books with numbers, the first he loved the second he loathed. Both offered a means to ease the agony crawling across his fingers though. And for that more than anything, he was ready to move.

"I'd _prefer_ Traitor."

"I don't. Grow up, and not the growth spurt way." Ronald grumped.

Ah crisis adverted, callousness returned. More than pleased with that, the man with no name took the lead, sure of his mind at that moment to find his way back to the familiar. Back where, inflicted impulse dictated, he belonged.


	3. Before: Childhood acquisition

Questions, Quandaries and Quarry

Chapter 2

The Before: Childhood acquisition

Despite what others might think, even Nobodies had childhoods. For the non-sentient it was a moment. Like that flicker between existence and none, it was a span where everything was taken in with wide eyes, overwhelmed senses. Then came the Pall, that grey tinged illumination that settled over everything. Snapping up splendor and shock and awe all in one move.

In its place came the rudimentary. The "how"s of how to take orders, follow orders, a means to understand, and the instinct to know who to follow when.

It wasn't much, a few seconds for most. But such was the vast majorities of a Nobodies childhood. There today, gone tomorrow on fast forward. In truth, per personal perspective and a multitude of cliché, there was no difference. In this one regard Nobodies and Somebodies were quite similar.

Bemused by thoughts far disassociated with the dust before him, but akin in texture and scent, Zexion heaved a sigh. From wry musings, to dust, to dusty subject, such was his lot. He stood before Vexen's love (one of many, the true scholar was anything but monogamous with his passions) and his bane. Mathmatics, and it was something a mite more advanced than "x plus a variable equals y, what is x?" that he'd grown to hate his Somebodyhood ago.

A smile pulled on his lips, one corner mind. He could still hear Vexen's irate, grating voice twist to a howl. Belittling his Somebody, and circumstance that had roped such an ignorant Nobody and himself to work side by side. This "mission" was a sham. But indulge one step to the side, listen to the clink-a-link of a wallet bulging with munny, the sound scarcely muffled by his thick black robes, and then reconsider the circumstances.

Yes, he'd been sent out with biting words and scorn…

But he'd been given more munny than he could count, no time limit, and access to a bookshop with orders to get what he needed.

Then there'd been that glimmer to Vexen's eyes. Anger had dimmed, as they'd looked upon each other, one scholar to another. Understanding shared, munny had passed hands, and that had been that.

Still, choice bits of his telling off lingered, playing when he got bored with looking at the covers of his bane.

_Of all the blasted memories to retain, you recall all of your English training, rudimentary as it is, but nothing, __**nothing**__ past elementary algebra!_

He almost smiled, almost, but the void in his existence swept out from the emptiness of his heart to rake his features with clawless hands. It went in stages, his loss. First the comprehension of how to smile fled. His lips slackened into a tell nothing line. Up it went steeling the mirth from his eyes. Then ever insidious it slipped in the space behind his eyes into a mind. Sliding between contradictions, existent non-existence was the crux, but there were others, all subtle in their shades of madness.

One blink, another, then he wondered, had to, what he'd thought was so… so… amusing? One blink, another, and even wonder was gone.

Pulling one book, requisite, it summoned a yawn that the nothingness within couldn't check, he flipped open the first page. Like any other pretentious text, the front had chapters, and each chapter was marked with a roman numeral. Fourteen numbers, and had he actually known of certain facts the irony would have been funny. As it was the idea of it being off by one digit irritated.

Still Vexen would do more than irritated if he didn't come back with at least one book.

Just one…

Twiddling orders, with expectations, against temptation, was a handful. Well two digits shy, but enough to occupy his mind. The tides and ebbs of nothing could do little against such sterile thoughts, so he was allowed to flip through the text, not quite understanding what he skimmed but sure that with effort he'd comprehend the worst of it by perusals' end.

Tucking the text under his arm, it joined a kin more loyal than any mundane book. Black and silver glinted in Twilight Town's chancy light, seemed red and orange, the metallic script. Still such changes were only cosmetic and a quick half step back from the window would assure Lexicon's return to gloomy normalcy. _Another side: Hallucination_ the title had caught the bookstore's owner eye and guaranteed the shoppers solitude and inspired a not-so-subtle check of said shop owner's tea cup when Zexion had passed.

Really, as if he'd _poison_ a Somebody.

While a tempting little experiment he much preferred magic induced mind plays, thank you. Also, screaming mad Somebodies tended to draw attention.

On the other side, (that thought summoned an idea, something about curled lips and irony, but that was beyond him now), it was nice to be feared, despite its present misplace. His aura on a pleasant day was to quote the crudes of the thirteen that weren't "Fuck off, I freakin' bite." Personally Zexion found the descriptor apt if flawed. Profanity was so… clumsy… especially when used gratuitously.

Hmm perhaps he'd get a dictionary for Axel, the man desperately needed one.

Ghosting past one window he drifted to the stores back. Bookshelves, all faux wood and shined by a gloss of fakeness that felt homey Zexion wandered up and down the small grammar section. While he was at it, perhaps he'd get a speech therapy book for Xemnas.

Imagining those orange eyes sizzling holes into his own complements of a laser blast from said tangerine hued peepers Zexion shelved the book he'd found and the suicidal idea in one move. Dictionary in one hand, (the thickest he could find, his gift would be a projectile, it's flight calculated per means of his first book to make sure it wasn't flawed in some way) Lexicon keeping Math company, he went to the counter. The bookshop's owner, a boring Somebody hardly worth noticing, noisy and grating as all their kinds, so painfully vibrantly alive that the details boiled down to male, oldish, and nothing more, was out.

As in; I'm still _checking tea, and the contents of the refrigerator, I'm not coming out_, sort of out. Rolling his eyes at the mundanely of it all he set his purchases on the desk top and waited. One flash of light made him pause, the binding metallic threads of his robe were swaying, tinkling, and catching the illumination to flare with unseemly brilliance. Snapping his free hand over the swaying luminance he snarled.

Something behind the door beyond the counter whimpered.

Another sound kept his temper from snapping. Voices, a scuffle. Leaving desk behind he slipped to the nearest window, pressing against shadow of a bookshelf to better hide himself from the not so oblivious onlooker.

"Come one freak, say it!"

There was a cluster, smears of color. Reaching out he swiped a hand over the gritty plane, able to see clearer he contemplated the circle of Somebodies. There was something or rather someone, amongst their midst being shoved back and forth. Proof of the last was given via thumps and a patch of spiky blond that struggled back and forth but never broke free from the crush.

"Come on Zombie boy, say it, say it… _Braaains_."

No grunt, cry of help, or any other response was given. The shoving got worse, and some of the weaker ones, specifically a short girl amongst the gathering, were pushed aside.

Just long enough for him to see a frame. Small, waif incarnate, a boy, blond hair, bruised. There and gone.

He'd not have care, really, but the boy with those dead, wide, blue eye brought back memories. Memories of birth, of growth, of the feverish moments after being Nothing.

"Come _ON_, Creeper, say it!"

Hissing in recalled pain he stepped to the counter, took what he wanted, leaving nothing behind, and stormed out. They were as he expected. Sad adolescent brats lost in the throes of cruelty, shrouded in clashing baggy clothes that were what their deluded minds perceived as "cool".

If he was right, if his hunch, that glimmer of a seeing was correct he'd be more than happy to inflict Vexen on the lot.

And Vexen would be more than content to have Somebody to play with. The achademic loved studying the heart, he'd like some fresh –if shrivled- ones to play with.

And what Xemnas didn't know wouldn't hurt.

Oblivious, they played on, never mind how his approach was louder than hell and his cloak billowed and all those other things the intelligent would note in his coming. But, perhaps all was not lost. The girl, sore from her last jostle, was less interested in her sport. She turned at his snarl, and despite the fact his fingers were flicking through Lexicon for the right page she picked up something from his approach and translated it to "busted". With a whimper she stepped back into the tallest of the brutes. The white clad boy grunted a "Wha'?" further flaunting his stupidity by not being able to articulate.

"Wha's it?" The punk snarled then he turned and smiled, seeing a short man coming up. Like most intellectual lackards he equated short with young and weak. "Aw lookit, another short stuff kid to play with!"

"Hardly."

Flipping open the book, page assured by touch and a memory that was most definitely OCD driven he showed off the text. Now, in most cases a flashing of a few pages was nothing. Just paper and ink bared to the world. Depending on whether there were pictures, or a good enough point to said flashing, a Somebodies reactions varied from either jerking off, laughing, or wrenching the book form your hands.

Lexicon however was no ordinary text. It was, as its title indicated, illusion incarnate. Hallucination was hardly benign, and this chosen one was the worst of the worse. Tailored to give each person a personal viewing of their innermost nightmares a few minutes could drive one and all mad.

Suffice to say, it was his favorite.

Screaming, they scattered, those Somebodies. Leaving victim to the clutches of a madness wielding malicious "shortie". Growling a few profanities at his _least_ favorite nickname Zexion shut the book. Dead blue eyes, a catch of blind rumpled hair and a cache of bruises (some seen, most not) greeted him.

The poor Nobody didn't blink. Probably didn't know how yet. So suffice to say there wasn't much words to the younger Nobody's greeting to his elder. Which present immersion with Somebodies considered, wasn't such a bad thing.

"Come."

Hand offered, he beckoned, hoping the Nobody could walk somewhat. He'd been "shuffling" so his moniker suggested. The boy had also stood through a series of shoves without falling.

There was a hope that this wouldn't require touching the newborn Nobody, if his cards were right (curse Luxord and all his influence, no more poker night, never again!) the Nobody would just shuffle right up. Which, after a long pause passed, the boy started to do so.

Slowly.

With his free hand he waved at the air behind him. Black spiraled form his fingers, thin ribbons of which spun round and round, thickening, conjoining into a door sized void at his back. Once the portal was fully formed and rippling with violet flames about its top, Zexion turned to consider the Nobody.

There'd been three steps traversed, perhaps four. Worse the boy was dripping red. Add cuts to bruises then. A flick of his hand changed the destination, To Vexen's lab it was then.

Five minutes later, one extra step, and the Schemer snapped.

"Oh for Kingdom Heart's sake!"

Stomping down the curb, he stormed up to the boy, snapped up an arm and once assured by the fact there was no pulse and this really was a Nobody and not some brain dead Somebody he hauled the brat behind him.

They left Twilgiht for darker paths and were spit out upon a span of pristine white. Vexen's voice crackled off, stilling his rendering (_not r_endering, as there were notes dying and hordes of Unversed being spawned with every verse) of "home again, home again" by some random band Zexion couldn't stand with a squawk.

Smiling, spite warming his spine if not his heart, Zexion shoved the wide eyed boy before him. Malice was one of the few things his heartless existence didn't deny.

"Number Four, meet Thirteen."

It also didn't forbid the occasional foray into melodrama.


	4. Chapter 4

The Now:

Unlikely

He tells himself there is more than this. More than the moment that defines his existence and more than routine that binds day to day. Perhaps, in that seductive span, the Before there had been something.

Not quite a hope, never a promise, but for all the vagaries just below the surface of his mind there is a sense of something that niggles. Something lost. Something that needed to be found.

An oddity amongst the order, an instinct of self-destruction that runs afoul self-preservation.

Darkness has no taste, no scent, it just is.

Yet it does.

Before avows that there was, is, shall be something more. But the Before is so chalked full of delusion via hallucination that while he wants to believe sense forbids him from blindly following the half mad impulse (instinct and exhaustion make him do it anyway, it's not blind, simply compulsion folded to after too long a day). Old cliché's non withstanding he's hesitant to trust a source whose tools unhinge the few scraps of sanity that are his own.

Sense, he suspects, is like routine. Implanted, enforced with obsession, insurmountable… So long as he adheres to… well what he adheres too.

Yet breaking the pattern has its own dangers.

Sense, like Routine, are both gears on the clockwork of the complicated, compelling, route that is his life. He can hear them grinding, grinding _what_ he's unsure. But there is a subtle sound to it. The kind that defies descriptors and inspired headaches and nausea.

There's medicine for that, so his doctor would clamber, but he turns her down. Shreds the prescriptions she presses into his hands, and flushes the pills left in his house.

He's got enough factors controlling his life; he's not adding chemicals to the mix.

Back and forth, he paces the length and width of his rooms, breaching those without a thought he traces the familiar route without seeing. The inconsistencies jangle, no robes, no dark.

Save that little skein, too thin to be little more than shade. He finds it pacing under a tree between here and there. The shade is so light its bitter is lost and it smells sweet.

No talismans click and clatter with each step. Though he knows it his hands rise up to arrest the motions of nothing and therefore close upon nothing. Still he holds to the pattern, to the path. In his mind he's taking tangents and angles, perusing back ways instead of sunlit ones.

In this, his body complies to the patterns that guild his life.

That rebellious hand fisted over his heart tells more of his internal state than he'd like to confess.

Journey's end. The entrance's a blur, the surroundings a smear regulated as nick-knack. Another door, passed without recognition then forgotten. Beyond the barrier is white, all white, yet there is nothing bright about the room. Even with all the windows wide and the sun shining there's a depression to the whole. One desk, its top smothered in papers –work- awaits him.

The path's ended for now, reality and realization settled in.

He's here, not going, not there.

He's in his place, his task before him.

His hand looses, he looks about, seeing the rooms other occupant. Hazel hued eyes flick over him, stray to the fist that quickly unclenches and slips into the nearest pocket.

"Don't."

Mouth open, the entrepreneur who never meant not be was clearly intending to say something.

"_Don't_."

"I was… I mean…" One arm reaches, fingers brush the arm that wasn't.

The motion is vaguely reminiscent of an embrace.

Lips pealed into a soft snarl –not soundless, hardly gentle, the volume is merely subdued- the traitor shook his head.

"I'm _not,_" he breathes, "_not_ you son, _not_ your friend. We're together because _they_ say we were supposed to be. Lack of personality conflict, that's what the test said. Compatible tasks, lack of conflict, potential for humanization and eventually integration. That's _all _this is."

And with that he threw himself into his char. Snapping up the pen he glared down at the piles before him. Click, click, open, shut, he twiddled the mechanism with unfeeling fingers.

"Don't you think… aren't you thinking… that by thinking like _that_… means it won't ever stop. For you?"

Click, open… click… "You're a fool if you think this will stop, for either of us." Release, a near soundless shudder as it locked closed. "What are they going to do, to give your arm back, after you reform? How can they reimburse you, for all these years, with munney?" He smirked. "Unlikely."

To my readers,

Well, it's odd that I do this, but this chapter was posted rough draft version so I can attach an author's note to it rather than continue the story. I personally don't like doing so, but this announcement is of some urgency.

Due to this site's pro censorship policy as well as the unchecked actions of the Literacy Union I've decided like a few of my fellow authors that my welcome has been worn out. I've personally not been contacted by these parties asking for a cease desist on my stories (not that they actually, you know, _warn_ people before shutting a story down…), nor do I personally feel that anything I've got published now would warrant the axe by their standards. The fact that this site is allowing them to set those standards is bad enough. The further fact that they are harassing authors who've done nothing more wrong than disagree with them…

It's just something that I don't want to be a part of.

One of the main reasons I write online is to avoid censorship. Yeah, I know that it has something of a stigma to it, but I've never had a problem with the distinction of online fanfic writer. I willingly take the good with the bad and consider it a fair exchange for the utter freedom to do what I like and to talk to other writers.

Slowly but surely Fanfiction's been taking those rights away and I initially had been thinking about leaving because of that.

The actions of the L.U. has sped up my plans considerably.

Expect an chapter update on the following stories/genres, these will have a similar letter of departure with a description of where to find my works (or in the case of the TOS stuff, a place where it will eventually be put up).

**Pokemon:**

_Two Paths to One End_

**K.H.:**

_Questions, Queries, Quarry _

**TOA:**

_Family of Idiots/ Under Bound Boughs_

**TOS:**

_Shards of Regeneration_

**Star Fox:**

_Madness Season_

**LOZ**

_Song of the Seagulls/Four by four_

**Final Fantasy 7 (and it's various off shoots)**

_Glass façade/Shinra Files_

**Harry Potter**

_An Unraveling_

**Portal**

_Troubled Mind_

**Castlevania**

_The Seeds we've Sown_

As of right now I've moved "Questions, Quandaries, Quarry" to Fic wad, under the pen name Kasan (underscore) soulblade and my other KH works will be following. I'm looking for other homes for the rest of my work (and am open to suggestions for that), but for now most of my stuff will be going to that site.

For those concerned, I won't be removing my work from _this_ site, simply marking it all as "complete" then transferring it to the new. If anything goes, it won't be of my accord I assure you.

All in all it's a rather unpleasant way to wind up seven years of being a part of this site… but ah well… can't change what is.

I apologize for the inconvenience it causes to you, my readers, but it has to be done.

Kasan Soulblade


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